


Tangled Up in Blue

by schubox4



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Contact War, imperialist asari
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-15 18:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7233481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schubox4/pseuds/schubox4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, the Prothean Empire spanned the galaxy. As they fell to the Reapers, their legacy fell to the Asari, who now rule with an iron fist. Humanity discovers the galactic community on the eve of the impending war with the Reapers; their unique knowledge and independent nature quickly embroils them in Imperial politics as the subjugated races see a new chance to throw off their oppression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Imperial Space, 2157

 

When she touched him, right before she touched him, there was a moment of yearning – her large eyes became beautiful, her mouth curled into a smile, and she smelled as good as any turian woman had to him, ever. He found himself straining towards her, wanting to be had by her, a feeling at odds with how he normally felt during mating. Not like himself at all. He could be selfish, he knew, when blowing off steam with a crewmate before an engagement. He could be rough, but then he always managed to find someone just as rough and just as selfish and it always felt right, even after the first moment of - 

The touch itself was electric, in that the closest he could come to finding an analogue was when as a young cadet in the engineering corp he had by accident touched a live wire and lost control of his muscles, jerking and smoking and falling to the floor and barely surviving as a quick-thinking veteran used a jury-rigged omnitool to restart his heart. It hurt like hell, is the point. 

And when she touched him with her many-fingered hands the illusion fell away. Her eyes filled with a strange alien expression, a hunger; her smile became a sneer of condescension; and her smell – well, she still smelled wonderful, but it was hard to notice when the pain arced into his skull and his legs went limp and if he hadn't refrained from drinking anything a few hours before he knew she would be coming to his cabin he may have soiled the couch. It had happened before, and Benezia was never pleased. As it was, General Desolas Arterius clenched his mandibles together to keep from screaming, on his own damn couch, on his own damn ship.

When he recovered from a light faint and the tingling had subsided enough that he could move his limbs again, Desolas opened his eyes to see Benezia sitting in his chair with her feet on his desk, messing with a datapad, her naked body a display that he felt no attraction towards, only vague dread. In the moment of her approach it seemed that it changed, he mused; her hips widened, her chest rounded, her skin metallic, her fringe sharpened. But now reality came back into focus, and Benezia was shrunk back into her soft, smooth-skinned, sexless self, totally absorbed in the matter at hand.

With an effortless gesture she drew a glass of water from across the room, only the faint blue glimmer betraying the immense power, carelessly exerted. Casually she poured it into her mouth with the same ease at which she could bend space itself, if she chose. Once he stopped twitching, Desolas got up and poured himself a tumbler of turian brandy, trying very hard to keep his hands steady. He couldn't tell if Benezia was watching him or not. He stared down at the tumbler, then placed it on the counter top and tilted the bottle back into his lipless mouth.

“Desolas,” Benezia said. He turned around. She didn't look at him. “Tell me about this incident at Relay 314.”

He put down the bottle, savoring the last of its burn in his throat. He drew himself up straighter. “It's an uncharted relay, located near the edge of Imperial Space. Patrols in the area came across a primitive spacefaring race trying to activate it. They opened fire, destroying all of the ships except one, which escaped. It's all there in more detail than I can remember off the top of my head, in the report.”

“This report is very thorough . . . it just doesn't mention much about the primitives themselves. They seem to have put up a fight.”

Desolas allowed himself a chuckle. “Barely. Minimal damage to the patrol fleet, though they were significantly outnumbered. It seems that though they have rudimentary onboard FTL drives their ship-to-ship weaponry is limited to chemically-propelled shells, some using nuclear fission explosives, some not. There were a few mass effect-assisted railguns but all of negligible size. None made it past the shields of even the smallest of our ships. They've never encountered a properly civilized race before.” _Poor bastards,_ he thought to himself. _They'll learn to miss the days they thought the galaxy was empty._

“I see,” Benezia sipped at her water. “There was some significant damage to the lead cruiser, though. Something you aren't telling me?”

“Ah, right, that,” General Arterius shifted nervously. “One of their small transports rammed it. A desperation move, and futile – minimal damage. Just a few turian lives lost in the collision.” He grit his mandibles. “Again, in the report.”

The asari matriarch stood up, reaching for her ceremonial dress. She – if she could even be called “she”, her form was growing more and more androgynous in his eyes – glanced at him with a cruelly knowing smile. “In the service of the Empire, death is noble. I know those turians that gave their lives did so happily and willingly to keep the relay closed. I commend, as always, the valor and dedication of your species.”

“Yes, of course,” replied Desolas, hardly hesitating at all, “Thank you, Matriarch.”

A knock on the door, and Benezia opened it biotically without allowing him time to put his clothes back on, forcing him to hurriedly throw a blanket over himself and compounding his shame.

The asari that entered looked much like the rest of them; a shade of matte blue, a narrow frame with sharp bright eyes and rounded shoulders, two lumps on the otherwise flat chest, blunt cartilaginous fringe, legs bent oddly. Desolas had spent time among them, though, and he could see the subtle signs of krogan ancestry. It was in a certain set of the head, and a hunching of the shoulders. A slightly more well-developed musculature. She didn't look like she had more than one or two generations of krogan fathers, all told. He had seen on Thessia freaks with five generations or more in them, much larger than their sisters, stomping around and growling at passersby. They were usually reserved for the more brutal campaigns, and Enkindlers help this new species if the asari thought that kind of force was necessary.

Interestingly, like her mother – as Desolas was slowly realizing this was the seldom-mentioned daughter of Benezia, named Liara – she also had two markings above her eyes that reminded him of the hair fringes of the fighter pilot they had locked up in the brig. It gave their faces an active, fluid appearance he found disturbing. Right now it served to emphasize her discomfort and surprise as she tried to ignore his presence.

“Mother, you're needed in the conference chamber!” she said, breathless, to Benezia. “I've held them off as long as I could!”

Matriarch Benezia adjusted her headpiece with care. “They can wait, my child. Calm yourself.” To Desolas she said, “I apologize, General, but what can I do with her? Poor thing. The krogan in my daughter prevents her from developing manners, so I must keep her close to me. Others would not be as understanding.” And back to Liara, “Step out, please. I'll be with you presently.” Liara did not need to be told twice; she seemed to shrink a little as she turned back to the door and walked out. Desolas wondered about her father – or was it grandfather? - and whether he (or she) was one of the sterilized krogan left on Tuchanka after the rebellion, or one of the breeding group deep in the labs of the Imperial installations on Thessia. Some things were not worth wondering about.

Benezia took a moment or two to check her reflection in the mirror. Desolas stood and walked over to his locker, taking out his armor and slipping into it. Its weight was comforting. He checked the time on his omnitool. His brother, Saren, was supposed to call him soon to check in. 

In his locker there was a small holographic projector with images of his family, some spare uniforms, and a Carnifex pistol sitting enticingly in its holster. He closed the door and turned back to Benezia. 

“I'll be back soon,” she said, smiling at him, and he forgot the anger for a second and smiled back. Then she left and Desolas was alone with only disgust for himself. His terminal dinged and he composed himself to act the distinguished general for his brother.

The figure that appeared on the screen was not his brother, however, but a hulking shadow shrouded in static. “Hello, General Arterius. I have a . . . proposition for you,” drawled a deep, rough voice. 

 

 

In another part of the dreadnought the asari sat in council, blue heads bowed, voices murmurs, around a table of steel emblazoned with the insignia of the Asari Empire – the goddess Athame, her arms spread in supplication, encompassing but overshadowing five orbs representing the homeworlds of the five client races. Her flat head craned upwards at a field of stars, her face serene. Upon seeing Benezia the asari delegation sat up expectantly, eyes brightening. 

“I see you were too busy to meet with us, Benezia? Indisposed?” Tevos snarked. 

“Oh, you know those turians,” she smiled, taking her place. “So clingy. You should have seen him moping around when he realized I had to leave.” Tevos laughed.

“Back to business,” the Imperial magistrate, Irissa, was not amused. “You've read the report?”

“I have,” said Benezia, pushing away the datapad in front of her and reaching for a glass of wine. “It was not all that interesting, frankly. Shouldn't we leave the reports to the salarians and turians?”

“Do you trust them to make policy decisions? I don't,” Irissa retorted in disgust. “I can't wait for the breeding programs to one day make their kinds obsolete.”

“Ha, that requires volunteers to procreate with the salarians,” said Tevos, “I would prefer not to touch that slimy skin or meld with those jumpy nerves, thank you.”

“The report,” Irissa raised her voice over the chuckles, “details what will be now referred to as the Relay 314 Incident. This is a standard first contact situation, somewhat hastened by the violent nature of our interaction. Military action is generally withheld until a full genetic survey can be conducted and Enkindler artifacts recovered. What's important now is how we move forward. Tela, how's the prisoner?”

Tela Vasir, a consummate soldier whose purplish face markers gave her the appearance of a predatory cat, replied, “He's choosing to be difficult. A few forced melds knocked him off his feet, though, and so presently he's recovering. Now that he knows who is in charge, I think we'll be making progress.”

“Any intel gathered while you were poking around in there? Or were you enjoying yourself too much?” Irissa asked. Tevos tittered. 

“Not much of note . . . without a species cipher on file it's hard to make sense of anything I find in there.” She shook her head. “I'll tell you this much: they're more advanced than the batarians or elcor were when we found them. What we came across was only a small exploratory mission. There were hints of a significant Enkindler archive somewhere in their space, helping them along.”

“But their weaponry posed no serious threat to our ships,” Benezia interjected, “they are still young, primitive.”

“True, so far.” Tela concluded. “Best to move to assimilation as soon as possible, in my opinion. Willingness to ram an enemy ship means this is not a people we want a protracted engagement with, especially if they manage to get their hands on our technology halfway through. We need to use diplomacy here, for now. Domination can come gradually.”

The voice that spoke up next was small and timid but gradually grew in strength and confidence as it went on, youthful sounding but with an edge of intelligence and a tiny amount of belligerence. It addressed first Benezia, then spread to encompass the room at large. “Mother, there's mention in the Athame Archive records of another repository of knowledge in that region of space. One that contains the remnants of Pashek Vran's work, a device of unknown power, the schematics of which he was forced to leave behind before fleeing to Thessia fifty thousand years ago. Maybe they've found it.”

The command staff looked at Benezia, who regarded her daughter with bemusement. “Liara, you spend too much time staring at old files on a datapad. I almost think you worship the Enkindlers as much as the lesser races do.”

“Perhaps it is her krogan . . . determination.” said Tevos. 

But Liara did not let go. “These – these humans – they might have vital information necessary for the coming war. Please, mother. We need to prioritize gaining access to that archive, immediately.”

There was a general stirring and Irissa turned, addressing Benezia. “You revealed state secrets to your daughter? Your quarter-krogan, purebred daughter? You trusted her to keep them?”

Matriarch Benezia internally lamented the decision of bringing Liara. She was young, inexperienced, too focused on academic pursuits to know how to behave on a diplomatic mission. Her ancestry predisposed her to aggression and unpredictability. But the girl had begged, probably because of this hypothetical Enkindler data cache, it was obvious in retrospect. Benezia also lamented, somewhat less, ever meeting a bull-headed asari-krogan soldier named Aethyta. 

“I did trust her. I do trust her,” she corrected herself, “since as an assistant to me, the chief coordinator with the turian leadership, her job often leads to her coming across details of the preparation for the coming of the Reapers. Unlike the 'great thinkers' of the turian military she can put two and two together. I trust my daughter, and in any case the time of the great test of our resolve is fast approaching.” Liara looked gratefully at her mother. Benezia felt the frustration she always did when forced into a position where she had to stand up for the brat, but tempered by a sense of motherly protectiveness.

“All the more reason to obtain all Enkindler data possible and consolidate the resources of every organic species,” Tevos said, looking at Irissa. “I agree with Tela. We should move to set up formal diplomatic relations. The usual incentives: omnitools, engines, biotic training if they have any. Enough galactic history and star maps to keep their scholarly community preoccupied with minutiae for a few centuries. Oh, and Sha'ira, of course.” She grinned.

Ambassador Sha'ira had been sitting at the head of the table quietly listening to the conversation and not speaking. At Tevos's insinuation she smiled graciously and said, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Matriarch Tevos. If I elaborate the many benefits of a partnership with the Asari Empire through my role as ambassador, I'm simply facilitating discourse between the species.”

“As you say, Ambassador.”

Sha'ira went on, “And I'd like to thank you for your input, Liara. I'd appreciate it if you could accompany me, as a Enkindler artifact expert if you will, when we are able to secure a meeting with the human government.” Liara beamed. Benezia tried not to look too apprehensive. “Meanwhile -”

An asari-turian aide entered abruptly and handed Benezia a datapad. She regarded it, scrolling down with a finger. Sha'ira looked affronted but lapsed into silence.

“Well?” asked Irissa, breaking the quiet.

Benezia stood, with a grim look on her sky-blue face. “Reports from the turian patrol fleet. They've encountered a retaliatory force coming through the Shanxi-Theta relay. Most of the patrol vessels were able to escape, but with heavy losses.”

“Primitives, huh?” said Tevos. 

“It was a large force that surprised them near the relay – but likely all the available ships they have in the vicinity, and nothing compared even to our own small diplomatic fleet, in ships and firepower.” Benezia allowed herself another smile, handing the datapad back to the aide, who stood at attention. “Nassana, inform the General to prepare for an engagement as soon as we go through the relay. We'll show them what the Empire can do with a single finger of its influence, then let them choose: the fist, or the open palm.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet even more parents.

The sky burned at night on Shanxi. Bright, tiny embers wheeled against the stars, vast flights of them, going noiselessly on unknown errands. General Williams stood outside the command center, looking up, his scarred face blank. Occasionally an aide would slip out the door, left propped open with a rock, and hand him a datapad; he would barely glance down at the figures and reports from the city and sign with a fingerprint and his initials, or bark a short order. But mostly he watched the sky. 

The aides, however, had a hard time drawing their eyes away from the burning city; it was Shanxi itself, one of the first permanent human colonies this far from Earth, a testament to the versatility of the species. A small dot on an entire planet that contained ninety percent of its human population, the rest of the globe just dusty rocks and scant native life that made Eden Prime and Terra Nova feel like paradises. This was why Williams had come here, leaving his daughter and her family back on Sirona. He liked the open spaces, the empty promise of the land which stretched in all directions and back to himself. But now he didn't look down at the ground, only towards the sky.

He could hear the hubbub from the temporary command center, an office building just new enough to not be a prefabricated trailer from the early days of the colony. It was made from local cement, steel, and glass, a proud testament to the transition from an encampment of travelers to a livable, sustainable city.

“Sir, we just lost the 3rd district!”

“More ground troops have landed across the river . . .”

“There's no word from the resistance on the south side, have the platoon in the financial district send out a few scouts . . .”

“ . . . some sort of metal grasshoppers under that armor . . .”

“I need men here, here, definitely here.”

“I actually thought they looked kind of like cats?”

“They're backed into a blind alley in there, I need an extraction immediately! I don't care if you need to scrape together every living soldier you can find!”

“No no, it's definitely more birdlike . . .”

General Williams snapped back into reality. He looked down at the most recent datapad that had been thrust into his hands: “Civilian Casualties (estimated)”. It was updated from the one he had been given sixteen hours ago, probably the last time he had eaten anything. He didn't feel much like eating now, either. 

Turning to the aide, he said, “Has the drone to Arcturus left the system? Safely?”

The aide, a young man with a pale face, stuttered out affirmation. The boy winced every time the ground shook. Miles away, another relativistic slug pounding into it from orbit and sending dust billowing and shrapnel flying into the meager kinetic shielding around the command center. With the battle in space being all but over, Williams knew the bastards up there had to be holding back from turning the entire ten-mile radius into a crater. For whatever reason, they weren't prepared to kill all of the feebly struggling humans, and that both worried him and gave him hope. 

“Go back in there and tell them . . .” he began, then stopped. “What was your name, again, son?”

“Private Sherwin, sir.”

“Alright Sherwin; I want you to go back in there and tell them as soon as Lieutenant Hackett gets back - we're surrendering the colony.”

The private froze, blubbering a little. Another impact rumbled off to the northwest.

“You heard me, private.”

“But . . .”

“That's an order.”

“Yes, sir.” He sprinted back inside.

It was a hell of a way to make first contact, that was for sure. They'd had glimpses of the rest of the galaxy: the Prothean archives on Mars, the relays themselves, debris and ruins from older civilizations. Humans had known, for almost a decade, that they were not the first, and a few rumors of four-eyed slavers and mysterious ships implied they weren't the only in their own time, either. But there had been no formal contact with anything resembling a civilization, until now. Somewhere in the galaxy, some unknown power had finally found them worthy enough to be beaten into the ground.

He went inside.

It was chaos in there, in what had once been the lobby; datapads spread everywhere, crates of communications equipment haphazardly stacked around, wires and cables in tangles, the emergency generator humming away, and thirty or so men and women who stood at attention and saluted him with the blankness of exhaustion and fear in their eyes. They had been running for nearly two days, no sleep and little food, keeping the command center mobile and out of the conflict areas as they coordinated with ground troops that dwindled hour by hour, receiving the news of ships in orbit running, running, attacking with little effect, running. And now they stopped, waiting on him to say something.

“Today, we have . . .” he started. Someone coughed. “In the history of . . . of humanity, there have been times where . . .” the General stalled again. “Look folks, I'll give it to you straight. We are facing overwhelming odds. We are facing a force greater than our own, more advanced, better prepared. Alien. We don't know how they think, what they want, why they've picked this time to appear to us. But I've seen them, as you all have. They're like us. They walk on two legs, have two hands, shoot us with weapons much like our own. If they wanted it, we would all be dead by now. But I believe they haven't killed us yet, to give us the chance to surrender. They're like us. They know they don't need to kill us all to win. And because I value your lives and my own, and the lives of the men and women under my command out there, I'm not prepared today to try to prove them wrong.” There was only silence. On some faces he saw relief; on others, betrayal. “And so my orders are: withdraw all troops and vehicles back to the first district. As soon as Lieutenant Hackett and the others on the reconnaissance mission come back in, we're contacting the aliens and issuing a surrender on any terms they see fit.” _Short of eating us, I guess,_ he thought privately.

“Sir,” said Sherwin timidly, “what about the mercenaries that are still out behind enemy lines? We don't have direct contact with them, but a few called in a while back saying they found some sort of Prothean device -”

“That doesn't sound like my problem. Call all of the uniformed troops back; tell them to pick up any civilians they come across and have space for, but don't waste time searching for survivors. I've looked at the analyses given to me and it looks like civilians aren't being directly targeted, only Alliance soldiers. Pulling out moves the threat away from them. If those assholes do call in again, tell them archaeology can wait until after aliens have stopped destroying city blocks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And where the hell is Hackett?”

“They're radioing in now, sir,” said the communications officer. “Want me to patch them through?”

“Yes, I'll take it in my office,” said Williams, stepping over to a corner near the elevators where there was a folding table strewn with papers.

The rest of the Alliance personnel slowly began to move again, speaking in murmurs and typing on pads or rustling papers. Outside, the impacts continued to boom like thunder, and occasionally a little dust would fall from the ceiling, pattering over computer screens and into officers' hair, making them look gray and old. In the makeshift hospital down the hall people moaned and cried, soldiers and mothers and fathers and children, citizens of humanity.

 

 

In the darkness a small group of hooded figures crept over twisted metal and cinders of trees. Overhead the stars and lights moved but their focus was on the ground, which still glowed in the infrared around the site of the crash.

It was an enemy fighter craft, a swooped shape that was familiar to the humans in recent days as the menacing vehicles that buzzed low over the streets at times, ever since they lost air power. It was smoking and upside down, one fin snapped off and burned, but otherwise surprisingly intact; it must have been at low altitude when it was shot down. Steven Hackett approached it warily, feeling the radiating heat through his armor and shields and hearing the ticking of cooling metal. He motioned for his team to follow him, keeping an eye on the skies.

Hackett actually felt a little disappointed at how similar it was to their own fighters, on closer inspection. Minus some aesthetic differences. It fell in line with the theory that these aliens had also gotten some of their technology from the Protheans – assuming they weren't Prothean themselves. The engines and main guns were familiar in design, using eezo cores to fly the ship and enhance the railguns through mass manipulation. Of more interest was the medium-range particle beam emitter slung underneath the cockpit. Hackett had seen it used mostly for picking people off in the streets, their bodies dissolving completely in flashes of light, not even leaving the dog tags to pick up or anything to mark that a person had been there other than a burn mark on the pavement. He pointed and Hannah and some others rushed over with a plasma cutter and began removing it, carefully shielding the sparks from view. There was however little they could do about the noise, which made him nervous. Hackett sent an engineer to look at the engines for anything worthy of salvaging, and headed for the cockpit to find where he assumed the navigation computer would be hiding. Based on the way these things could target and maneuver, that would probably teach them something. It was a strip job; salvaging alien technology and reverse-engineering it might save humanity in the days to come. 

Through the transparent cockpit window he could see the shape of the pilot hanging limply in his harness. He was tall, at least seven feet. His hands had too few fingers and his legs were bent grotesquely. 

“Or her,” Hackett mumbled out loud to himself. “Or . . . it?”

“What sir?” asked Hannah, poking her head around the fuselage.

“Nothing,” he said, and began cutting through the thick transparent material.

There were sparks and a heavy clunk as a chunk of the stuff, which felt unlike any glass or plastic he had ever encountered, fell onto the burned ground. 

“Jenkins, get your ass over here and grab a sample of this crap. I'm going in.” He gingerly pulled himself up into the interior of the craft, which smelled of burning metal. He noticed that his infrared filter made it impossible to differentiate the dozen unfamiliar controls, switched to a flashlight shielded by his hand, and realized that even that wasn't much help. He shifted and turned his attention to some of the blank displays, inadvertently putting his hand on the dead alien's leg in the process. He almost fell out of the fighter. The alien swung side to side in its straps, upside down, its face hidden behind its dark helmet. 

Hackett pulled himself together. Turning off the flashlight, he noticed a slight orange glow threading its way down the console. He followed it to a hidden panel that popped open with a touch, revealing more glowing orange things. Carefully he felt around and dislodged a device that looked pretty much what he imagined an alien computer would look like, especially with all the glowing bits. It had similarities with the navigation systems on some human ships that were Prothean-influenced, but there were enough differences that it might not have the same function at all. That difference might be valuable, but made it harder to know what exactly he was dealing with.  
Hackett readjusted himself again to look at some other promising devices, and ended up leaning back into the hanging pilot. He took out his knife and wedged it in a crevice, trying to pry open the console.

The body moved.

Hackett had no time to react; an arm reached around and tightened on his throat, he reflexively stabbed backward with the knife but it clattered harmlessly against that armor they always wore and was knocked aside. He tried to reach for his pistol but the other arm trapped his wrist. He tried to scream but could only make a hoarse croak and flail his legs around the cockpit. Help, he thought desperately. Where the hell was everyone? Stars began to appear in front of his eyes, shifting and dancing, and he realized that if he kept struggling he would only die faster, but he couldn't stop. Behind him the alien made a hissing, grunting sound.

Then the pressure suddenly became slack, and Hackett fell, banging his shin on the sharp edge of the hole he had cut and landing heavily, stomach down, on the ground. Groaning, he rolled over and looked up. The alien had also fallen into the bubble of the cockpit, directly on its head; it wasn't unconscious but was stuck still partially upside down, tangled in its harness, stunned but trying to move. The harness was severed. Further up, in what had once been the floor of the ship there was now a hole, and Hannah Shepard waved down at him, still holding the plasma cutter. 

“Sorry sir, I was going after the isolinear circuits and noticed you needed some help!”

“Thank you, private.” Steve Hackett pulled out his pistol and got to his feet with difficulty. The alien thrashed around in the harness, hissing and shrieking horribly. Hackett turned his flashlight back on and reached in and pulled off its helmet, revealing a horrible noseless armored face with mandibles that clacked in apparent anger and discomfort. There were two artificial blue streaks under its eyes, like tribal markings. A two-clawed hand swiped at him, but he ducked just in time. Then, none too gently, he placed the muzzle of his pistol against the metallic skin. At the same time Hannah dropped down through the hole, agile as a monkey, and stuck her boot under its chin. The movement and sounds stopped. 

“Jenkins?” Hackett shouted.

“Here, sir. I'm on the radio with the General. He wants us back as soon as -”

“Gotcha. Let him know we'll be bringing back an extra.”

“Yes sir.” The young man spoke into the radio, then put it away. There was a tiny sound, a _fwip_ , and Jenkins was knocked to the ground, his kinetic shield crackling.

“Fuck!” said Hackett before he could stop himself. He and the other soldiers scanned the horizon but no more shots were heard. Still, it meant they needed to move, quickly. He unceremoniously, with Hannah's help, yanked the alien out of the cockpit. There was a satisfying thump as it hit the ground, and they hastily bound its hands and mouth with the remains of the harness and cajoled it to its feet, two other soldiers searching it for weapons. 

“How's Jenkins?” He yelled to the man kneeling next to the prone figure, Garibaldi.

Garibaldi poked Jenkins with a finger and he came to life, wheezing and cursing. “They missed and hit him in the chest. His shields stopped it, he'll be fine.”

“Barely,” wheezed Jenkins.

“Good enough. Okay everyone! Saddle up and get a move on! Lights off, let's get out of here.”

 

 

Desolas was standing over a blown-up holographic map of Shanxi, using a claw to circle drop zones and heavy weapons emplacements, when Benezia came up behind him and put a cold hand on his back. He shivered, but kept it under control. 

“We've just had word that the colony has surrendered. Good work as always, General.”

“Thank you,” Desolas said. He was moderately pleased with it himself. Compared to Khar'shan, this had been a simple and almost painless affair. Hopefully the humans got the message. 

“One thing; they mention they have a prisoner, retrieved from a downed fighter.”

“Hm. There were only a few fighters that were shot down low enough to not have been destroyed on impact. Do they know his name?”

She shook her head. “No translators, surprisingly. We've been communicating using the language we learned from the pilot we captured. Who should not be mentioned to them, by the way, since he did not survive the creation of the cipher.”

“Noted. Where was he found?” She pointed at a spot on the map.

Desolas brought up the flight paths of downed ships, and sighed. “Oh no, not him.”

“Who?”

“Castis Vakarian. I've met him before. Good soldier, very straight-laced. Bit hard to get along with, though. Always tinkering with his ship.” _A good head and a good shot,_ Desolas remembered. A shame that keeping his clan markings prevented him from being promoted in the current culture of the military – the asari frowned upon the markings, and so the upper brass did too.

“We'll make sure to get him back,” Benezia said, grimly. “At least with no translators, he won't give away any information. Otherwise . . .”

“How fortunate,” said Desolas. She smiled at him and touched his hand. 

“The turians have done their part,” she said. “Now leave the rest to us.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some old friends.

Liara walked through the metal corridors, her footsteps ringing. She nodded to asari dignitaries she knew, and a few of the turians hurrying past on warlike errands, but all along her mind was working, working, working. 

The problem, as always, was the enigma of the Enkindlers, and Pashek Vran in particular. Thousands of years ago their culture spanned the galaxy, bringing together the knowledge and strength of dozens if not hundreds of species of organic life. Testaments to their godlike technological abilities were everywhere still in the galaxy in the form of vast stores of knowledge meant to last millenia, crumbling cities covering entire planets, and of course the enormous relay network which enabled their successors to traverse the galaxy with ease. But that interconnection came with a price; enemies waited around every corner in this galaxy, and beyond it. Some were simple vermin, like rachni and vorcha and krogan; some were far older and more powerful than even the Enkindlers themselves, which lead to their downfall.

“Good morning, Liara,” said a turian who seemed vaguely familiar. And definitely important based on his uniform. He fell in step beside her.

When Liara was small she read manuscripts and watched vids given to her by her mother about the Enkindlers and their advanced culture which transcended anything known in the galaxy in modern times. When she was a little older, she learned about their ultimate defeat at the hands of an evil force which came out of deep intergalactic space. She read with hunger the accounts of the philosopher Pashek Vran, written during the First Enlightened Age and much restored and retranslated and probably colored by historical interpretations. It was primarily a religious text; he occupied a place next to Athame in the spiritual hearts of the asari people. The scientific basis of his words and advice had not been realized until many thousands of years after he arrived on Thessia, a refugee from an interstellar war the primitive people there could not hope to comprehend.

But the mystery was, why? Why had these beings, so advanced they were deities compared to the cultures that came after, allowed themselves to be wiped out so totally? The questions nagged at her. And there was so little still to go on. The last living Enkindler wanted to make sure they were prepared for the future, but left barely any records of his own people's history. Sure, that history was evident in the debris strewn throughout the galaxy. And Pashek had left warnings: accounts of the Metacon War against a contemporary machine race, and the Reaper War against an ancient one. The fear of thinking machines that was passed down to her own people. Which was a good thing, she reminded herself. It meant they had more time to prepare.

“Where are you heading?” said the turian. “I can walk with you.” His face was definitely one she had seen before. But, admittedly, she had trouble telling them apart.

“Just down to the lab,” Liara said.

It was only when she started attending university that Liara had realized the limited nature of the information she was given. There were references to things in the unclassified sections of the Athame Archives – the “Conduit”, the “Catalyst”, a place called the “Citadel” - which lead to mysteriously dead ends. Every other person, object and place name in the records had a immense pile of cross-referenced literature attached to it, regardless of how much was truly known. Not so for these; they simply existed on the page, and at first Liara thought she might have been the only one to notice them. Then she realized that was simply impossible. Finally she went to Benezia; as a member of the upper echelon of the government, her mother had access to information far beyond what the normal asari did. And by that point it was obvious to Liara that something was being covered up, since her instructors refused to talk to her about the passages she brought to them. But that also could have been because she had already at that point in her education gained notoriety for asking too many questions and embarrassing lecturers with poorly-timed interruptions and critiques, all the more embarrassing because she was part krogan. It never occurred to her until much later that it was strange she was the only non asari-salarian in the university, student or faculty, and no one brought it up to her directly, most likely out of fear. But after a few arguments with Benezia and a lengthy bureaucratic process she was granted access to secure documents detailing many of the things she was after. She learned the Reapers would come again, and soon. And after a few months of intense study the young scientist once again ran up against a wall, this time with no leads or secret information, just unknowns.

Except a few mentions of Pashek Vran's research facility, hidden somewhere out there on the edge of the galaxy. And a weapon that had been the last hope for the embattled Enkindlers, one which they eventually abandoned in their retreat. If the humans had found it . . . it would be the discovery of a lifetime. 

Liara smiled to herself in excitement at the prospect. Next to her, the turian official cleared his throat, and she abruptly remembered he was there. 

They had also not gone toward the lab at all, but rather a side passage down towards the drive core. It was warm and the floor hummed a little with the working of the engine. She turned to her companion to apologize for getting distracted, wondering if he had just been so intimidated by her he continued following as she veered of course without correcting her. The turians were all a little in awe of the asari, of course, so Liara usually tried to put them at ease, since their awkwardness made her extremely uncomfortable and self conscious. Turians were an important part of the future goals of the Empire based on the guidance of the last Enkindler; they needed to feel like they were part of it. 

This one did look familiar, and it dawned on Liara that she had seen him earlier in her mother's chamber. She was immediately embarrassed. Maybe he wanted to talk about that? Unnecessary, it wasn't like she cared, and frankly she didn't want to have that conversation, not when she had work to do and a huge amount of new responsibility and pressure and she had to make sure to get it right or lose her chance to be taken seriously ever again.

“Look, General Deimos – I mean Desolas – General Arterius, sir; I have to go now.” She started back the way they had come.

His metallic face was almost unreadable to her, but now she noticed it, she thought it had a touch of sadness. His eyes were strangely bloodshot. His hands shook slightly as he reached into a case on his hip and brought out a syringe.

The next few moments were all very surreal. Liara had intensive biotic training, like all young asari maidens; the ones with krogan and turian ancestry were usually picked for commando squads to work in conjunction with the turians and learn the ways of war from them. Liara, however, had pursued academic life instead, and hadn't used her powers in battle except for a few sparing matches over three decades ago. Otherwise she might have thought to put up her barrier first – instead she began reflexively, but too slowly, to move into the stance for Throw, motivated by satisfying memories of tossing opponents across a ring. Unfortunately this left her completely unprotected against the needle that Desolas, lightning-fast, jabbed into her shoulder.

It's in the muscle, she thought. Slow absorption into the bloodstream. And to think I always hated my broad shoulders. 

The seconds slowed down, and she found she suddenly had plenty of time to evaluate the situation. Thinking it through left her nowhere, however. Nothing made sense. She had thought but no capacity for understanding. There was no time. She decided to finish the movement she had started. 

Desolas was taken off guard and her biotics picked up and slammed him back against the bulkhead with a crack and a flash of blue light. Liara got some satisfaction out of that. Then her legs wobbled and the corridor spun, and she sank to her knees. Her last thought before the blackness descended was wondering what Benezia would think when she found out.

 

 

Space is dark, away from a star. Some people forget about this. And there's not much of a reason for a spaceship, especially one belonging to those practical turians, to waste energy lighting up their outer hull, except in spots, for maintenance. The outside of the dreadnought was dark with the exception of a few viewports that were lit from within. And those were mostly on the upper decks, where the asari diplomats lived. 

The small vessel, its emissions cut to almost nothing, therefore landed near the lower decks using its tiny maneuvering thrusters to get close enough to latch on. It was coasting on the momentum from its last FTL burst near the unnamed ice giant at the edge of the system. The planet had allowed them to dump charge while simultaneously shielding them from sensors with its bulk and rings. After which they might as well have been a meteor; but the dreadnought's point defense systems would have destroyed them anyway as part of automated collision detection if not for their man on the inside creating a blind spot for them, barely the size of their ship and for barely enough time to retrieve the package and leave again. 

The krogan battlemaster Urdnot Wrex disliked such a subtle approach. But, desperate times.

He paced restlessly behind the pilot's seat. Another Urdnot clan member, Vrask, was piloting the ship. If you could call it that. He was just sitting there, staring ahead, messing with the controls occasionally. There were so few youth these days, it made Wrex sick, how weak and coddled they all were. How listless, without a drop of the fiery blood that made their race strong in the distant past. What would come of the species with Vrask in the lead, a few centuries down the line?

A turian and a quarian came into the bridge, and Wrex allowed himself a wry smile. Here they were, all the impotent dregs of the galaxy: him with quads that were only good for decoration; Vitoria, a member of a race that was still in denial about its own, more symbolic, castration; and Zaal'Koris, definitely the last quarian alive in this region of space, one of only a handful scattered across galaxy. 

Vitoria crossed her arms, shivering, as she scanned the readings from the sensors. The heating system was turned down to the comfortable minimum. Wrex sympathized. Neither of them were made for the cold. Zaal, on the other hand, seemed quite cozy in his insulated suit. Whether he gloated or not was impossible to tell behind the obscuring mask. Quarians. He doubted they had any quads at all in there. First had their asses handed to them in the Morning War by their own creations, then nearly wiped out by the Asari Empire as punishment for the sin of creating sentient machines. Weak, much weaker than the turians and asari. And stupid as well. Two things he hated. At least Zaal could be trusted to keep the engines running. 

“We're coming in,” growled Vrask, hunched over the controls, their soft orange light illuminating his youthfully smooth face. Through the window they could see the small maintenance dock, its tiny green light blinking. “Hang on to something. The inertial dampers are still set to low.” Vitoria and Zaal grabbed for handholds. Urdnot Wrex sneered. Urdnot Vrask pressed a button activating the emergency docking clamp, arresting the motion of their ship relative to the dreadnought with a sudden jerk that threw Wrex forward into the back of the pilot's seat. He swore and rubbed his head.

“I said to hang on to something,” said Vrask, more annoyed than amused, but still sounding a little too amused for Wrex.

Wrex quickly got to his feet. At least they were able to keep the gravity on; otherwise he'd be flailing about the cockpit. “Shut up, pipsqueak,” he rasped. “Now, get up, you lot.” Zaal and Vitoria were still standing. He ignored that, and pulled out his shotgun to face the hatchway, his biotics crackling. He waited.

“You should move to one side,” said Vitoria, drawing her gun. “You're blocking my shot.”

“Me as well, actually.” said Zaal. “Wouldn't it be better to send a drone in first?”

Grumbling, Wrex took a step to the side.

“A little more, maybe?” said Vitoria. 

He sighed heavily and pressed himself against the bulkhead. 

“Thanks.” said the turian. She sighted down the barrel of her custom heavy pistol. She was a bit of a mystery to Wrex; he knew very little about her, or why she had joined their cause. Among the krogan, females were so rare and valuable they were never seen on the front lines. For turians on the other hand the genders were treated interchangeably, and in fact Wrex could barely tell the difference. He found her assertiveness irritating. But at least he could respect her ability. Unlike Zaal, who wanted to send in a drone to do a krogan's work. 

The hatch slid open, and an aquamarine construct of hard light – Zaal's drone – flew past Wrex's head.

It sent out a miniature bolt of lightning that hit the turian on the other side, making his shield flicker and die out, its generator sparking. “Ow!” the stranger said, toppling over. Wrex, not to be outdone, surrounded him in a stasis field which glowed and arrested his fall. The krogan, quarian, and female turian climbed through the hatch.

“Where's the package?” Wrex growled. 

“It's behind me. And please release me, I've been through enough today,” the turian spat back, frozen except for his mouth and eyes.

Wrex smiled. So this was the great General Arterius. He recognized him from pictures. He also resembled his brother. 

Behind him was a shipping container, about the right size for the body of a young asari. Zaal scanned it with his omnitool, and nodded to Wrex. Releasing the stasis, Wrex walked over to the crate and opened it, revealing an inert blue form with a breathing mask strapped over its face and connected to a tank of anesthetic. He allowed himself a grimacing smile.

Desolas was still sitting on the floor, rubbing his back with an expression of pain on his face. “We had a deal,” he said, not looking them in the eyes.

Vitoria pulled out a datapad and tapped at it for a moment. Then she turned it around to show the General the screen. “It's a live feed,” she told him.

On the screen, a young turian's face was visible against a background of gray rocks. “Hello, Desolas.”

Desolas almost cried out in relief. “Saren! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Saren said, and for once Desolas wasn't annoyed at the surliness of his brother's reponses. “I was dropped on Menae pretty close to one of the bases, so I'm supposed to tell you I'll get there in under an hour and call you again.” He seemed to be looking around the camera at someone else, then went back to Desolas. “They'll be watching me as a walk back, they said. I'm okay though. No worries.”

“Good, and do you remember what I told you before?”

“Yes, I won't tell anyone this happened. But Des, we can't just- ”

The feed turned off. Desolas slowly got to his feet. With barely restrained anger he said to Wrex, “You have thirty seconds to detach before the window closes. After that, wait about ten minutes for the ship to get far enough away before switching your engines back on. We're headed for the relay, we won't notice you back here.” The others had already dragged the shipping container back inside with Vrask's help. Wrex paused a moment, sizing up the General. Turians he respected, even if they were predictable. He slapped Desolas on the arm in a sympathetic, chummy way just because he knew it would insult him, and climbed back through the hatchway.

Desolas watched as the tiny ship disappeared, then slunk away back through the bowels of the ship.


	4. Chapter 4

The turian opened his eyes slowly. Around him pinkish blobs were hovering. As his vision cleared they came into focus: things like short asari, topped with fuzz. They ranged from pinkish white to dark brown. They wore uniforms or armor, gray and white and black. No sense of flair, he noted to himself. That wouldn't be mentioned in the eventual report, though.

Glancing down at his shackled hands and feet, he found himself looking forward to being alive to write a report about this.

His name was Castis Vakarian. He was a soldier behind enemy lines. Whether or not he had ever wanted to be a soldier, that was what he was. And he fulfilled his role to the best of his ability even now, counting the humans he saw, evaluating their weapons and technology. There were two standing guard, but others came in and out frequently, stopping to stare at him. Each had primitive mass effect-assisted rifles, with enormous and inefficient-looking cooling systems. Typical for races just starting out, trying to adapt large scale Enkindler technology to personal devices. 

Still, a bullet was a bullet. He had seen plenty of turians go down, even with their vastly more powerful shields and armor, when a group of those primitives ganged up on them with their inefficient weapons. It made it easier for him to gun them down from the sky before they knew what was coming. Not much, but some.

He had been placed in a kind of temporary holding cell. It had probably originally been a prefab structure or trailer of some sort, everything stripped out of it that he could use to escape or stab or hit someone with, just bare white floor and bare steel walls and a single source of illumination overhead. They had brought him in here last night fully conscious and struggling and bolted him to the floor, where he had after a few hours passed out from exhaustion. Probably not a great idea for his head injury from the crash. It still sent lightning bolts of pain down the side of his face if he accidentally rested that part of his head against something, but all things considered he thought he would be okay.

His translator was still working, though. He had never been sure how exactly they functioned, but he knew enough to assume it would take significant brain damage to mess one up. So, he could at least listen in to their conversations.

Or he could if anyone was talking. “Hey you,” he said experimentally. The guards both jumped. “You call this a POW camp?” He wriggled in his shackles.

“Jesus what the shit was that!” said one of the humans, leveling its weapon at the prisoner on the floor.

“Hell if I know. Maybe that's how they talk,” said the other. “Reminds me of the time my uncle ran over a cat on Eden Prime. They're all over the place there. Invasive species.” 

The first human, who was shorter and had red fuzz, replied: “Reminds me of the sounds your mother made, night before we shipped out.” 

There was a tense moment, then both abruptly began making huffing noises that the tiny inkling of understanding Castis felt in his mind told him was laughter. 

“Well,” he muttered aloud. “I guess you two idiots don't have translators.” The red-fuzzed one stepped over and kicked him sharply in the abdomen. He gasped. “Which means you can't question me. Kick away, be my guest.” The other one stepped forward and kicked him too, almost a little sheepishly. “Didn't have to take me at my word,” he groaned.

Another one came in, with brown fuzz that wrapped around its face. “Hannah!” it yelled. “Did I just see you kick the prisoner?” To the other one it said, “Don't worry Jenkins I know you just wanted to fit in.”

The red-fuzzed one shrugged. “Ever have one of those moments when you're just like, I totally could do this jerkish thing, I have the opportunity, let's just do it and see what happens? Come on Hackett, it's a war. Anyway, they shot Jenkins. Right Jenkins?”

“Jenkins, you don't need to respond to that. Shepard, leave the prisoner alone. This isn't a game. The general is having peace talks with the aliens in charge right now, the blue ones. I think they're called Asami. We need to bring him in there.”

Glad to hear he would be moving, Castis groaned and sat up. This new one, Hackett, was the one he had seen when first waking up from the crash. He would love to get another chance at strangling him. 

No you wouldn't, said a small voice in his head. You're a softy. Anyway they would certainly kill you if you succeeded, and you have people waiting for you. 

He ignored it. His duty to the Hierarchy was more important, and the Hierarchy expected him to fight.

“Hey, uh, guys, I think it can understand us,” said the one called Jenkins.

“Of course it can! They've all got some sort of translating gizmo. They're talking to the general right now through a kind of robot voice thing, but they can understand him fine.” Hackett sighed. “Sorry,” he said, and Castis suddenly realized he was being directly addressed for the first time. “Sorry about this. We'll get you home, back to your people.”

“Thanks,” said Castis. “You cloaca.”

Hackett winced. “Yeah, that'll take some getting used to. I'll assume it's grateful.” He signaled to the two others, and him and Jenkins reached down to unlock the shackles on his feet and untether him from the floor while Hannah stood over them with a rifle pointed at the turian's face. They left his hands bound, lifting him from either side under the shoulders. Last night they had removed his armor to search for weapons, and so as he was marched out the door it was in his underclothes. 

Across an open yard strewn with rubble from the bombardment of the last few days, to a building with strange rectangular architecture, through a large room, and down a hallway which was also rectangular. As he went he tried to count the humans he saw and keep inventory of their weapons, but the suddenly movement was making him lightheaded and he lost track. The humans were constantly shifting around – walking or lounging in groups of three to ten, gaping their strange mouths at him, sitting on pieces of rubble and broken furniture and climbing on top of broken down vehicles like pyjaks. His uncovered toe claws dug into the dirt as he walked, kicking up dust and broken glass. 

In a small room at the end of the hallway there was a human pacing back and forth, addressing a two-dimensional projection of an asari. There were many others in the room, mostly in a sort of formal looking attire, and two armed guards who motioned for them to stop. The human talking was older than most, or so Castis guessed; certainly more bowed and tired. His exact emotions were hard to judge, but he seemed more thoughtful than furious. Maybe the negotiations were going well.

“You know the Alliance won't let your occupation slide,” he was saying, “Humans have never surrendered to an invasion force before. By doing so, I have made history, as well as destroyed my own career.”

“We completely understand,” the asari said soothingly. _Probably Sha'ira,_ thought Castis. She was in charge of this affair, though he had never had occasion to see her face. She was supposed to be some sort of legendary beauty. Looking at her even in these circumstances on a flat screen, he could almost believe it.

“We completely understand,” said a soothing voice from a speaker, slightly delayed.

“Sure, you beat the shit – pardon me – out of the garrison on this planet. But this is the smallest of our colonies. Right now the main fleet is assembling, and they'll be here any day now. I want to stop this from turning into a bloodbath.”

 _Blood . . . bath?_ thought Castis. _Maybe my translator did get dislodged somehow._

“Do not worry, General Williams. My people do not want that either. It makes no sense to continue this conflict. Our friends the turians can't even survive long on the ecosystem on this planet, having unique biological needs. They would if necessary, but it is essentially pointless.” The machine repeated her words and the General bobbed his head.

“Her voice is even worse than yours,” Jenkins whispered. Hannah snickered behind them.

Hackett turned and made a _shhhhhhhhhh_ sound with his strange lips. 

The General glanced over and noticed them standing there. “Ah,” he said. “As I said, I wanted to show you that the prisoner has not been harmed. Bring him over here, gently, please.” Castis was pulled into the room and made to stand in front of the screen. He blinked in the bright lights. 

Sha'ira barely glanced at him. “Thank you, General Williams. I'm glad to see it. I'll arrange for a shuttle to pick him up -”

The signal abruptly cut off, leaving the screen blank and gray.

“Son of a – damn it, get that transceiver working again!” Williams shouted. Several humans began tugging on cords and tapping buttons on communications equipment that looked like it had been hastily assembled from whatever was lying around. Eventually one of them switched the power off and back on, an approach to electronics that Castis found mildly amusing.

There was a loud burst of static, then the image came back. But it was wrong; instead of the beautiful cerulean face there was simply a hulking form shrouded in shadows.

“Hello,” it grumbled. From the baffled reactions of the humans it was obvious they couldn't understand him. But they weren't the intended recipients. “This is a delayed broadcast from a drone I left in the Relay 314 system. By now me and my ship are long gone. Also gone is the daughter of Matriarch Benezia, Liara T'Soni. She will be returned safely and in relatively good health on the condition of the release of all krogan and turian prisoners held unlawfully by the Asari Empire. This signal is being broadcast to all those listening in the vicinity,” the voice continued, with an audible smirk, “because if my sources are correct, the existence of secret asari breeding camps are not commonly known among those not in the higher ranks of either the asari or turian militaries. For everyone watching,” the camera shifted and showed the face of a young asari, unconscious, wearing an oxygen mask that was fogged with her breath. The perplexed humans recoiled in shock. “This is the promising young scientist, who will die unless the Empire releases their prisoners. If they refuse, know that all the rest of you are also responsible for her death, by standing by during the enslavement and genocide perpetrated against your fellow sentient organisms. We are watching your facilities. You have seven Thessian days starting now. I await your decision.” The screen went blank again.

It sounded like a krogan to Castis, though he couldn't be sure. It could have easily been some batarian thug with a voice modulator and a big hood, trying to seem more threatening. 

_Stupid punks, _he thought. _No cause could justify . . . wait, did he mention turian prisoners?___

__The asari ambassador came back on the screen. “We apologize for that, General. It seems we have a situation on our hands. No need to worry, it is an internal issue that won't affect our work here.”_ _

__Williams looked confused, but kept his composure. “Well I'm not sure what that was all about, Ambassador, but let me know if there's any way we can help.”_ _

__She seemed to consider it. “Well . . .” She became distracted by something out of screen. “Just a moment.” The screen went blank again._ _

__Williams tapped his foot. Castis felt the world slipping away and would have passed out if the humans at either arm hadn't yanked him back abruptly to his feet._ _

__“How's the head injury?” said Hannah._ _

__Castis groaned. “Just, you know. Slowly killing me. Or maybe I'll be okay. I'm not a doctor.”_ _

__“Okay, screech scree screech, got it,” she said. “Let me write that down.”_ _

__Williams was grim. “Hackett, keep your men in line.”_ _

__“Yes sir,” said Hackett. “Can we take him back? Or set him down?”_ _

__The General held up a finger. Shi'ara was back. With her was another asari in a yellow dress whom Castis definitely recognized – Benezia, the lead coordinator with the military. People said things about her and General Arterius being an item, often with an edge of jealousy. Castis himself wasn't into aliens, sexual compatibility or not, and saw the whole thing as the fevered imaginations of asari fetishists. Sure, many turians went down that road, more and more of the young ones lately it seemed, but the top brass . . . he doubted it, just short of outright dismissing it. Turians for him though, and one, his wife, in particular._ _

__Still this lady was certainly objectively attractive with her hawkish features and poise, with the subtle hints of anger and grief flavoring her appeal. He vaguely wondered if the charm worked on humans as well – he didn't see why it wouldn't, considering it had always worked on every other species they had encountered in the past. He had even heard thresher maws and varren packs were less likely to attack asari on foot. Probably bullshit, but it did make you think._ _

__His attention snapped back as he heard his name. Benezia sounded drained; he felt suddenly guilty for letting his mind wander when so much was going on. “Castis Vakarian, I regret to say your work is not yet done. We've decided, since the relay leading back to human space activated recently, the culprits have most likely fled into human space. The current situation would make us going through that relay with the fleet problematic. You will stay and work with the Alliance task force investigating the kidnapping of my daughter – you've already interacted with humans and you can help them to deal with the technology those bandits might be using. This will also serve to cement the bond between our empire and the Earth Systems Alliance. Meanwhile these talks will continue in your absence. General Williams, I'd just like to say . . .”_ _

__Castis felt faint again and Benezia's voice faded into nonsense. His mouth felt dry._ _

__“. . . only send my best and most trusted. Lieutenant Hackett has a fine team . . .” Williams was saying._ _

__He realized he was pulling too hard on his wrist shackles, which was bad, it would leave a bruise, cut into his flesh. But he couldn't stop._ _

__“. . . Sir, I don't think there is anyone better for the job than the men under my command. Private Shepard in particular has shown time and time again her sensitivity to cultural . . .” Hackett was speaking next to his ear._ _

__Castis looked around the room, at their flapping lips and fuzzy heads, their eyes and hands, their coverings and weapons. He tried to imagine spending the next seven days with them, instead of going home to his wife and newborn son._ _

__Damn, they needed to find that asari soon._ _

__“ . . . We'll send translators and dextro amino acid rations down in a shuttle. Thank you for your commitment and service, Vakarian.” Benezia almost seemed actually grateful, but the steely set of her face gave little away._ _

__Castis cleared his throat with difficulty and drew himself upright. As well has he could with his hands bound, he saluted. “Yes ma'am. It is my pleasure to fulfill my duty to the Empire.”_ _

__“I think it would be wise to unshackle him, General. And give him his belongings back.”_ _

__“Yes, of course.” Williams motioned to a a few of the men, who released his restraints._ _

__The turian flexed his talons, feeling the blood flowing back into them. On the screen Benezia was talking about more things, like treaties and boundaries and alerting the main human fleet. But Castis just stared at Hackett, and rubbed his head and grinned._ _

__There was a cold touch in the small of his back and Shepard, the small red-headed one, whispered, “Don't try anything, alien. I've got my eye on your shapely lizard butt.”_ _

__He grunted what he hoped was an agreement noise and the pressure went away._ _

__It would be interesting._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even more thinly-veiled exposition.

Out the porthole of the tiny ship Vitoria could see the shape of the station drifting past – it was large, but also archaic looking, with a central rotating torus to produce a reasonable facsimile of gravity, and two oversized arms covered in docking bays for ships of all shapes and sizes. It was impressive in a way, but reminded her of a child building a tower of blocks with no regard for keeping it straight or gently placing the block, just building it higher and higher piece by piece, with the adults standing nearby shaking their heads and waiting for it to fall, only for the tower to stand tall, perfectly balanced against all odds. To be clear, this wasn't a compliment.

“What amazes me,” she said to herself but also her friend Zaal'Koris, who was working at a terminal nearby in the cramped engine room “is how disorganized it all is. They're supposed to be gearing up for war, right? Why are their forces so spread out in the system? Why are there so many civilian ships taking up docking space?”

Zaal glanced up from his screen. “First of all, I think most of those 'civilian ships' are just a lighter form of cruiser than you're used to seeing. Second, of course their forces are spread out, in case an invasion force comes through the relay – they can't all be destroyed at once.”

She looked again. “Sure, I guess. But that's a cowardly tactic. Even the Hegemony met us head on. Granted, it didn't work.”

The quarian's gloved fingers moved rapidly over the display, calibrating, configuring, encoding. His body-enveloping suit was old and covered in patches which leaked and left him with near-constant infections, severely draining their limited supplies of antibiotics. He was a fragile creature. Being dextro he could eat turian food, but only certain kinds that agreed with his capricious system. Vitoria had a hidden cache of the orange tubers he liked that she kept for herself, and or sometimes used to motivate him when his melancholy interfered with his work.

Zaal sighed. He checked a few readings then shut off the terminal and turned his back on the drive core. “You know how I got to be an engineer?”

“I don't know,” Vitoria said, leaning against the bulkhead and folding her arms. “I thought all quarians could do that.”

“No, most certainly not. My mother used to say she broke every gadget she touched. My father, though; he was a great engineer. It was the reason we got a small berth on a volus cargo ship where I spent most of my childhood, and the reason I learned the trade. The ship changed owners, but we stayed with it, a package deal.” His face was hidden behind the visor, only two faintly glowing eyes showing through the scratched hard plastic. “Until I was able to go off on my own. It's called Pilgrimage; a young quarian leaves home and goes elsewhere to find work and maybe, eventually, starts a family. When the Migrant Fleet first left Rannoch, quarians left on Pilgrimage to obtain useful knowledge for the fleet.”

“I see, and those still on Pilgrimage were the ones left alive when the fleet was destroyed.”

“Precisely. Having all of our population together in one place nearly doomed us to extinction. Now, we go on Pilgrimage, and we never come back.”

“I'm sorry.”

“That's unnecessary and frankly inadequate. But it's alright. As long as I am alive, there is one quarian still in the galaxy, and my race persists. If anything, I feel more sorry for the geth.” 

“Geth? The sentient machines? They're responsible for more deaths of your people than the asari and the turians are.”

“True; but you don't understand. We tried to wipe them all out, just for existing, or so my parents told me. Just like my people eventually were. Except the geth, when the asari came for them to correct our mistake, fleeing was not an option. It's the curse of their networked intelligence, which we quarians designed for them. Any geth not immediately destroyed was cut off and became nonsentient, easily rounded up and disposed of. So yes, I can feel bad for them – we made them imperfectly, and as a result they perished.”

“Huh,” Vitoria shrugged and straightened up, stretching. 

“Don't blow it off. They were living beings.”

“All I know is, I learned in school as a child that the quarians tinkered with things they didn't understand, and almost doomed the galaxy.” She switched on her omnitool and began browsing through pistol mods. “I'm sad about what happened to your people. Couldn't care less about the fancy gear boxes though.” Zaal shook his head and sighed. Dramatic.

She left him there fiddling with the engine and went to the armory. There her pistol hung in its cradle. At its base it was a standard issue turian military pistol, but over the years it had been modified so many times that little of the original remained. The cooling system was now ramped up to a level where overheating was rarely an issue, the barrel was lengthened slightly, the tiny eezo core increased in size and therefore power. It had neither the speed of a sub machine gun nor the range and power of a sniper rifle, but it was precise and reliable when paired with her own formidable skill. Not to mention it made her feel less like a soldier and more like the independent merc, which she preferred. Admittedly, the original gun's design constrained how much could be improved; despite time and change, the Hierarchy still showed through.

Vitoria swiped through her omnitool to find the mod she was interested in, a stunning attachment, and synced with the armory computer. The orange-yellow display lit up and cycled through its starting procedures, whirling symbols coalescing into the desired three dimensional shape. Omnigel was siphoned from a reservoir, hard light constructs molding the molten stuff to her specification, cooling and hardening it. The finished product she was able to slip snugly onto the barrel. She noted that its increased weight would slow her draw speed and throw off her aim in battle; better to take it off after she was finished. A heavy gun meant less recoil though. Maybe she'd keep it on for a while, see how she liked it.

The turian went to see the prisoner.

Their ship was small; bigger than some corvettes, but small enough that four crew fit together in it right on the edge of strangling each other. Its registry information listed it as the _Shullore_ , a secondhand volus escort vehicle refitted as a carrier of small amounts of cargo. In practice it was called alternatingly “a pile of shit”, “a rusty rattling death trap”, or by Vrask “a brick with an engine attached”. In the rear was engineering, forward was the tiny cockpit where Vrask spent most of his time. On her left were two circular doors leading to the armory and the communal crew quarters where she and Vrask slept, as well as a tiny miserable bathroom. Zaal'Koris preferred to sleep in engineering for some reason, and Wrex had his own tiny cabin on the right. Also on the right were the galley and limited medical station. However a hidden trap door right in the center of the hallway lead down into the belly of the ship, the cargo bay, where Liara T'Soni was tied up.

As Vitoria climbed down the ladder she saw that the asari was awake. Wrex had propped her up, still restrained, on a chair he must have stolen from the galley. He was sitting on an overturned shipping crate, crouched over, staring at T'Soni threateningly. The asari was staring back, bewildered. It seemed like this might have been going on for some time. As Vitoria walked up behind him, the krogan stood up with a _humpf_ and growled at the turian, “She's all yours. Good luck.” And then he left. 

Vitoria sat down on the crate and studied the prisoner. In turn, she was studied. The asari's bright piercing eyes scanned her face, no doubt trying to memorize it so revenge could be taken after her eventual escape. Her mouth wasn't gagged, but she wasn't talking, so far. 

It was funny – Vitoria had been in the turian military for nearly six years, and had never gotten this close to an asari. They mostly mingled with the upper echelon, not the normal troops. Around a thousand years ago asari soldiers, mostly asari-krogan, had fought alongside the turians on Tuchanka; but the more recent campaigns on Khar'shan that she had been a part of mostly were turian boots on the ground. She had imagined the blue soft aliens to be more alluring, but this one, tied to the chair, was not living up to expectations. 

“Look,” she said, “we could knock you back out. Would you like that?”

Liara seemed to be considering it.

“But we're not going to. Because we'd like to talk to you first.” That was part of the reason, the other part being limited amounts of anesthetic that worked on asari which might be needed later at some crucial point to keep her quiet. “But if you don't have anything to say . . .”

“Sorry, but I don't.” Liara muttered. “I don't know anything you're interested in. I already told that krogan. But he just sat there and stared at me.” Her voice was surprisingly melodious, with an undercurrent of fear and confusion.

“Oh, don't mind him.” Vitoria leaned in confidentially. “We like to let him think he's in charge.” She faked a smile, playing the good cop, but was surprised to find herself smiling for real. Liara grinned a little back.

“So,” said Vitoria. She rubbed her forehead. “So, I should tell you why you're here. It might make you feel better to know that we aren't interested in harming you – as long as you cooperate, you'll be fine. You are just a pawn in a much, much larger conflict. But it has nothing to do with you.”

“But it has to do with my mother,” 

“Exactly. But, there's no need to worry about it.” Vitoria was feeling strangely flustered. She fidgeted with her holster. “If there are no complications, you'll be returned completely safe. I promise.” Clearing her throat and trying to switch back to gruffness, Vitoria went on, “But to tell you the truth, I'm not sure about Wrex. He has a serious temper, and a lot of reason to be angry at your people. Looking for revenge. I think he might be hoping for . . . complications.”

Liara gasped. Vitoria nodded, went on, “It might help, though, if you proved you were valuable. You could give us a little information. Nothing big if you don't want to, nothing to put anyone's lives at danger. We just want to know what we're up against. We're trying to protect our loved ones too.”

Vitoria surprised herself by reaching over and taking Liara's hand. Her skin was soft and warm, her eyes liquid pools. After a moment the turian abruptly jerked backward.

“Are you okay?” Liara asked. Her face was impossible to read, alien.

“I . . .” Vitoria shook her head, trying to clear away the fog. “I think I should . . .”

The blast of blue light knocked her backwards off the crate. She banged her head on the edge but managed to land on her feet on the other side, still wobbly. She pulled out her pistol and scrambled back on top of the crate.

Liara was levitating in her chair, a few feet from the ground, wreathed in blue light. As Vitoria watched the raw biotic energy pulsed again like the squeezing of a fist and the chains exploded, literally exploded, sending metal shrapnel flying that grazed her cheek. Vitoria fired a shot and missed. She fired again and missed again. The spatial distortion curved the path of the shots, blowing small craters in the ceiling and a crate of dextro rations. _Shit, shit shit shit,_ Vitoria thought, _If she keeps doing that she'll rip a hole in the ship. Or I'll shoot one in it._

The asari turned towards her, extending a hand. The chair fell away, clattered on the metal cargo hold floor. Out of the blue fingertips a much bluer pulse of blinding light emerged and flew across the room, arcing to hit Vitoria in the chest.

Excruciating pain – it was like the world, around her and through her, fractured into dozens of jagged pieces as the warped edges of space time ground against each other. Vitoria fell to her knees and Liara advanced, lightly touching back down on the ground. 

Vitoria felt herself blacking out, fought against it. With unbearable difficulty she lunged forward – more of a flop really – and jammed the barrel of her gun into Liara's stomach before the asari could stop her.

There was the weird slippery resistance of a biotic barrier close to the skin but she pushed through it, bringing the stunner into contact, and Liara suddenly convulsed, the blue glow dying out. The pistol was knocked out of Vitoria's hand.

The warp field had been a weak one, a shaky back part of Vitoria's mind reasoned. Otherwise she'd be dead, easily. Maybe the asari couldn't bring herself to go full strength. Now that was a scary thought. She stayed where she was, lying half on and half off the crate, trying not to think about what that could have possibly done to her internal organs. 

Liara stirred. She slowly began to push herself back up. The stunning attachment was only meant to throw someone off their feet briefly; it wouldn't slow her down for long. 

Vitoria pushed herself up on her hands, her arms shaking a little. She reached for the gun where it lay on the floor. 

There was another burst of blue light, and Liara froze completely, encased in a glassy blue spherical field. Vitoria reached her gun and aimed it, confused. Then she looked over to the ladder, where Wrex was poised with an outstretched hand that crackled with blue lightning. He walked over to where Liara was imprisoned, released the stasis, and quickly stuck a needle into her shoulder. The asari struggled for a moment then went limp.

“Keelah! What happened down here?” said Zaal, climbing down the ladder. His drone whizzed frantically around his head. “Oh no,” he exclaimed in horror. “Not the dextro rations!” 

Wrex helped Vitoria up. “Gotta be more careful with them,” he said. “They'll twist you in knots. In more ways than one. Humpf.”

Vitoria rubbed her fringe. “Yeah, I suppose. I got sloppy.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You looked like you could use that same advice before, though. Sitting and staring at her.” The turian leaned against another crate to steady herself. 

Wrex became oddly embarrassed. He shuffled his feet. “I wish,” he said, bitterly. “The genophage eliminated that problem, though. I was just making sure.”

“I thought the genophage only made female krogans sterile?” Vitoria said, realizing she had stepped into a minefield.

“Sure. The first one did. The next few, though . . .”

“So that's where you were hiding them!” Zaal said triumphantly. He held up the bag of short, cylindrical tubers. “I'm disappointed in you, Vitoria. I'm putting these in the galley where they belong.” He paused, looking at them and the prone form of Liara. “As long as I'm not needed down here, that is.” 

“Go ahead,” grumbled Wrex. He and Vitoria found some more chains and carefully redid the bonds on Liara, working in silence. Eventually she was once again trussed up, her arms and legs more securely bound. For now they replaced the intravenous drip – but it was clear that there would only be enough for two days or less. They needed a permanent solution.

“Zaal and Vrask aren't here,” Vitoria began. “The only way to be sure she doesn't escape and kill us all -”

“I'm not killing her. Not until the Empire has had a chance to respond,” said Wrex. 

Vitoria shrugged. “Let me know if you change your mind.” She left him there and slowly climbed to the upper deck, stopping at the medical station. She hooked her armor up to the medigel dispenser and began replenishing her supplies. 

In the galley Zaal was banging around, probably cooking; he always insisted on cooking for himself but never made food for anyone else. The cockpit door was closed. Vrask was probably inside, fiddling with instruments and stoically refusing to talk to anyone as usual. Wrex climbed up from below after a minute and went straight to his cabin and shut the door. Vitoria found herself missing turian vessels, with their harsh rules but close camaraderie, every member of a team contributing to the goal. Here it was different; even with the dangerous living weapon only haphazardly restrained right below them, there was no sense of urgency or cooperation. In the spiritualism once practiced on Palaven but now slowly but surely dying out, every ship, thing, person or group of people, had an innate spirit. The _Shullore_ must have heard of the changing trend and gotten rid of its spirit long ago.

When she finished she went back to the armory, and began searching through mods again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note on the character of Zaal'Koris: given the very different history of the quarians, his background and current position, and the fact that he's young in this story, he is a very different person than in the game. Though he still feels sympathetic towards the Geth of course.


	6. Chapter 6

The machine was large, and quite horrifying. There were large sharp pieces, far too many restraints, and it was all on slightly too large a scale. Hannah Shepard glanced at Hackett and Jenkins, both sitting in chairs with gauze wrapped around their heads, an ice pack pressed against their left ears, and pained expressions on their faces as a few human doctors did basic neurological tests. 

“Sorry,” the blue alien, the asari, explained. Or at least the glowing orange thing on her wrist did. “These are left over from the last time we acclimated a species, so it's not a great fit, but it will work. We'll give your engineers the principles and you can build your own.”

“Yeah, Shepard. It'll be fun. You should try,” said Hackett unconvincingly. 

The turian, Vakarian, hissed and shrieked. He had been given back his armor, and now looked a lot less skinny and helpless. The asari had also apparently done something for his head injury, since he was less wobbily than before and also had a small rectangular black patch on the side of his head. He reached over with a talon, poked Hackett's bag of ice, and recoiled, gibbering.

“I don't need your medical advice, bug face,” said Hackett, wincing. “Trust me, it helps.”

“What is it you hear when he talks?” asked Hannah curiously. Vakarian gabbered a bit more.

“Uhhhh. Kind of just sounds like English, actually. With a bit of a weird sound to it. Jenkins, what do you think?”

“Basically, yeah. Don't hear the screeches at all anymore. . . wait. Wait, do it again, I think I can still hear it if I concentrate - ” 

“Do _not_ do that,” said the asari scientist. “There's an initial critical period where the neural connections have to reset. If you purposefully try to focus on the actual signals your auditory nerve is sending, it will strengthen different pathways and interfere with the translator, possibly leading to a lethal seizure. Or just a non-functioning translator. We don't know enough about your brains to say for sure.” 

Jenkins turned pale.

“Yeah Jenkins, just don't think about it,” Hackett said, grinning. 

“Yes, that is best,” said the asari seriously. She motioned to Hannah.

Hannah gritted her teeth. “Let's get this bullshit over with.”

They strapped her down in the chair. The leg parts matched up pretty well, almost, but the back went back too far and they had stuffed some pillows into it to fill it out. Noiselessly several arms on either side slid down and grasped her skull, surprisingly gentle. A long pointed part on her left moved out of her field of vision, up to her skull. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“Don't do that,” said the asari. Hannah opened her eyes again. She didn't feel anything.

“So when is this going to start?” she asked.

“It's almost done,” the asari said.

“Oh . . . great,” Hannah sighed, looking around. It was better than the dentist, at least. “What's your name, sexy blue lady?”

The asari smiled and replied in her nasally speech. She had strange but lovely facial markings. “Rana. Rana Thanoptis,” her wrist said. 

“Rana? Nice to meet you. I wonder if -”

“And you're finished. You can step out of the chair now.” The scientist helped her undo the straps and step down. As soon as she did, Hannah began to feel a tiny sliver of pain in her left temple. It started to grow. Her neck felt wet, and she brushed it with her fingers. They came away bloody. A human doctor stepped in and stuffed some cotton into her ear, wrapping gauze around her head like the others. Meanwhile the pain continued to expand and she sat down in a chair, gratefully accepting an ice pack. 

The difference came gradually, but when it was there it was definitely _there_. Her brain . . . it felt strange, like a changing perception, those 3D pictures you had to cross your eyes to see, staring into the darkness and realizing your cat is sitting there, staring back at you. It reminded her of her first ultrasound, seeing random white, black, gray squiggles that meant nothing and suddenly realizing that this was a heartbeat, that was a foot, and so on. 

“Shhhhrrreeeeeeeeeaeaaeeechrik chirk shrak shhhaaaack shrit, sheey, heeey, hey, hey, can you hear me, hey you, hey. Oh, now you can. Hello,” said Castis. His voice as interpreted had a pleasant buzz to it now, a kind of self-harmony. 

“Hello,” said Hannah. _Now that is an improvement._

“Welcome to the team,” said the alien. He sounded grumpy, which she had kind of expected. “Are we done here, doctor?”

“I was told there was one more victim,” said Rana.

“I was told there was one additional participant,” said her wrist. Odd.

“Send the next one in,” yelled Hackett, wincing again.

The next person to step into the clinic, set up in the lobby of a hospital that had been far from any of the fighting and so was undamaged, was a tall muscular black man with short-cropped hair. . He wore armor she hadn't seen before – a dull black-gray, with a red stripe down one arm, and a tiny insignia: “N7”.

“Who're you?” she asked. “Sir, I thought you only picked me and Jenkins.” Hackett shrugged.

The man paused, uncertain, and she realized he was actually very young, younger than her.

“This is Lieutenant David Anderson,” said General Williams, striding in. The humans jumped up to salute him, Hackett dropping his ice pack. The general waved his hand dismissively. “As you were. He's fresh from the academy, one of the first graduates from our new Interplanetary Combatives Training program. He came over with the ships from the main fleet yesterday morning. He's smart as a whip and very promising; I thought he would be an asset in our first extraterrestrial cooperative mission.” 

“Sir, with all due respect, I think we have all the help we need -” Hackett started.

“That's enough, lieutenant. Frankly I thought you'd be happy to have another human being along for the ride.” Neither of them looked at Castis, but Hannah did. The turian was standing off to the side, pretending not to pay attention. “Anyway, General Grissom insisted. He's against the whole idea, of course, doesn't want an alien agent our side of the Arcturus relay, didn't believe that alien terrorists are already there. Of course they noticed the relay activating off schedule but they thought it was a malfunction. He wants to go on the offensive against the aliens. Idiot. Maybe if they were occupying Shanxi, but as it is . . .”

Castis was looking out a window and into the distance. Hannah followed his eyes to the asari and turian shuttles falling, heavy as stones, down to the spaceport where their landing thrusters flared a bright blue. Dozens of them; diplomatic teams and support staff, they said. Up in the sky, the dreadnoughts could only be seen when one of them passed in front of the sun. There was something wrong about all this.

“. . . Sorry to speak poorly of your friend and commander, Lieutenant Anderson. I'm not too worried about offending anyone these days. Not with aliens walking around the streets of my colony and everything.” 

“It's alright, sir,” Anderson said, very politely. “I just want to be one of the first to help put mankind's best foot forward, in whatever way I can.” So clean and pure, Hannah noted. Interesting. 

“I'm glad to hear it. Now, I think you have an appointment with the doctor.”

Anderson hesitated, looking at the machine.

“Get on it, soldier!” said Hackett. “No one under my command refuses to let aliens poke holes in their heads!”

“Yes, but technically, we have the same rank, sir,” said Anderson.

Hackett gave him a look. 

“That being said, you are commanding this mission, sir.” 

“That's right. Now sit down and say 'Ahhh'.” 

General Williams laughed. “Well, I see you two will get along. Excuse me, I need to get to a meeting.” He glanced uneasily at the machine and then abruptly left.

“Isn't he getting one too?” Hannah asked, curious. Hackett and Jenkins shrugged.

“He was the first one in here, actually. I was worried; his heart rate doubled when he was sitting in the chair,” Dr. Thanoptis said. She turned to Anderson. “If you could please just sit down already.”

“If you would please sit down,” said her wrist. 

The young man stepped forward smoothly, seeming determined, and allowed himself to be lead to and strapped into the chair. It made even him look small. Hannah watched with fascination at what had happened to her only moments ago. The head restraints were much more menacing and industrial-looking than their soft touch implied, compared to the small fragile-looking human skull clasped between them. 

“Oh no, I hate this part,” Castis said in his intriguingly buzzing voice. 

The pointed piece on the left moved around in a creepily organic way, almost feeling through the air next to Anderson's head until it settled in a position exactly opposite his ear canal. Then with sickening speed a thin, thin metallic rod extruded from the tip, plunging into Anderson's ear. Castis winced. So did Shepard. Anderson on the other hand didn't react at all, staring straight forward with the intensity of someone who expects something to hurt very much but doesn't want to think about it. Thanoptis monitored everything intently from a glowing orange console. She seemed like an intense and professional person, but Hannah was starting to pick up some sardonic vibes from her. It was hard to say if she hated this all or was secretly enjoying it.

Actually, why was she assuming she was getting vibes at all? Rana was an alien, pure and simple, less related to her than a banana. How could her mannerisms, body language, voice be considered to convey any information interpretable to a human? Sure she outwardly looked fairly human, in body shape and size. Just blue, tentacles for hair, no ears precisely, no eyebrows, a few body markings and some weird skin folds on the back of the neck. The texture of the skin in general looked strange from this distance. Her gait and way of standing had an oddness to it as well, a subtle one. _Huh,_ Hannah thought. _That's actually a fair amount of difference, when you look at the features individually. Sure she's hot, but what about her do I actually find attractive, in particular?_

Rana caught her staring and stared back quizzically. There was an awkward moment and then she turned her attention back to the monitor.

“Is it . . . is it done yet?” said Anderson in the chair. 

“Just a moment,” said Rana. The metallic rod retracted in a way that looked like it should have made a _shick_ sound, but instead was silent. This was somehow more disturbing to Hannah. “And you're done.”

“That wasn't too bad,” said Anderson. Then, “Ow. Oh, I see.”

“Sit down here with us invalids,” said Hackett, with sympathy. He pulled over a chair and the young officer sat down gratefully.

Castis might have been smirking, as usual it was hard to tell. “Hey you,” he said to Anderson. “Cluck cluck cluck screech screech scrowch.”

“Stop messing with him,” said Hackett. Anderson looked confused. 

“Frankly, seeing him screw with people makes me feel better about this whole thing,” noted Hannah. “He seems like someone I could get used to. Or eventually shoot over a card game gone wrong. Is this how you act in the 'turian' military, Vakarian?”

“No, definitely not, actually. I'm enjoying the change.”

“So you like being here?”

“I wouldn't say that.”

Hannah shrugged. His outward sarcasm reminded her of many men she had seen in the last week or so, the kind that couldn't help but laugh and joke about the sheer unbelievable nature of an alien invasion even as soldiers to their left and right dropped like flies. It was a desperate, hopeless kind of humor.

It occurred to her that she was more sure of this impression that the ones she had about Rana, despite the asari's humanoid shape and his overtly strange one.

“Remind me to have a talk with you all about teamwork,” said Hackett, leaning back and adjusting his ice pack. “God, if I knew I would have to deal with this as an officer, I'd've stayed an enlisted man.” He groaned and got to his feet. “I'll see you all back here first thing tomorrow morning. Mission briefing at oh eight hundred. Vakarian, uh, just ask someone what time it is.”

“Thanks, but I can only talk to you four and the General. So you're saying I should go ask him?”

“No, no, uh . . . Jenkins, make sure to alert Mr. Vakarian on your way here.” 

“Yes sir.” Hackett took his leave, waving away a few doctors with instruments that wanted to check his reflexes, giving insincere promises to check in with them tomorrow.

“By the way,” said Anderson tentatively. “What is your rank in the military? Do you have ranks? Just so, you know, we can address you properly.”

“Lieutenant,” said the turian. 

“Ugh, we already have enough lieutenants around here,” Hannah said.

“Wait, what did you hear me say?” Castis asked.

“Lieutenant,” said Hannah. “Right guys?” The other two nodded.

“No, I said lieutenant,” said Castis.

“That's what I said. Lieutenant.” said Hannah.

“Huh, I see. I don't hear back exactly the same as what I said, but of course our military hierarchy has a lot more specificity than yours. I guess that's good enough. Cultural translations have a tendency to . . . eh.”

“Eh?” Hannah questioned.

“Eh,” stated Castis.

“As intelligent as all of this discussion on xenolinguistics and the inherent limitations of technological implants, not to mention how novel a line of inquiry you're pursuing, I really need to get going,” said Rana. “If any of you experience headaches, mood swings, language changes, motor changes, seizures, fluid leakage, aphasia, agnosia, biotic fluctuations, or persistent sensory abnormalities, let us know and we'll send someone to adjust it for you.”

“One thing, Doctor Thanoptis . . .” Castis reached into a compartment on his armor and brought out a small plastic-looking thing. She hesitated, then took it. “Make sure it gets to my wife. Didn't want to go through proper channels, everything's on lock down with Benezia's daughter gone.”

Rana stowed the thing away, probably a data drive of some kind Hannah reasoned. “I understand. I'll bill your account for a parasite screening.” She sighed. “Now, I need to get off this planet before everyone decides to start blowing things up again. You know how it is.”

“Yes, I do,” said Castis.

The doctor left, and a few turians moved in to pick up her equipment. They were wearing armor, so must have also been part of the military, but acted more like very conscientious butlers in their meticulous cleaning and careful shifting of containers onto antigravity carts. Hannah noted that Castis paid as little heed to them as Rana did, despite them being his own kind. Anderson seemed to be thinking the same thing, looking between the workers and the soldier, a frown on his face.

A couple of them brought in a large crate on a cart, and Castis directed them to the cot he had been assigned on one of the upper floors.

“Do you mind me asking what that was?” said Anderson suspiciously,

“Mostly nutrient bars,” replied Castis. “A little produce, maybe, if I'm lucky. Water filtration system. Maybe a bottle of horosk if the requisitions officer was feeling sympathetic. I can't eat the food here. Not an insult, it's the proteins.” 

“And how long is all that going to last you?” Hannah asked.

“Long enough. We don't have a whole lot of time, remember?”

“Right,” said Hannah, and it suddenly hit her, the mission and all of its heavy implications. For humanity and its future, this burgeoning alliance. For the young alien taken captive. As Castis left she felt the uncertainty of everything come bubbling up.

Anderson stood and moved to the door, watching the turians leave. He turned to Hannah and Jenkins. “I know you two fought during the invasion, right? You killed some of those things?” They nodded.

“Good to know they can be killed,” Anderson went on. “That's why I'm here. To take him down at the least hint of anything untoward. Christ, I can't figure out what everyone's thinking around here! Letting them walk through the camp, keep warships around our colony, when last week they were shooting us in the streets?”

“I don't know, Anderson. You weren't here, we had to surrender,” Jenkins piped up, surprising Hannah. “And since then . . . isn't it more important to try to move past it?”

“Move _past_ it?!” Anderson sputtered. “What about you, Shepard?”

She shrugged, unable to come up with an adequate response – he was right, but it wasn't good enough. “I was with you at first. Wanted to get revenge, prove ourselves as a species. All I know is, this isn't a situation where standing our ground is an option. Maybe in the future, after we learn from them a little. I agree we should keep an eye on the alien, though.”

Anderson muttered, “At least I know I can count on my own people.” He left. The human doctors puttering around had mostly went back to their duties by now, leaving Jenkins and Hannah relatively alone.

“This'll be a hell of a mission,” said Hannah.

“You're telling me,” said Jenkins. He touched his chest, gingerly. “I just hope I don't get shot again.”

“Me neither.” She threw an affectionate arm around his shoulder. He threw one back. “You know Vakarian's gonna come after me for kicking him, right?”

“Oh totally. I mean I did it too, but he'll definitely stab you in the back first,” Jenkins contemplated. “And then I'll turn around and be like 'What?' and he'll stab me in the front.”

“We'll just have to constantly spoon. Platonically of course.”

“Of course, no inappropriate touching while keeping an eye out for turians with knives.”

“We'll form together into a single stronger human to fight him off.”

“Mega Shenkins!”

They laughed. 

“Seriously though, it'll be rough,” said Hannah. “Certainly can't imagine palling around with a seven-foot-tall monster all the time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so much banter in this one, sorry if any of it sounds stilted. But I love it so much.


End file.
